RIDING TO CLEREMONT
The town of Cleremont was at the top of a hill, the district rich with fields and crops. Conn, riding up the hill toward it, felt sick to his stomach.
I feel like the very air is tainted.
He shook his head, knowing he was being ridiculous. However, he couldn't help it. The man who ruled this place was the architect of Leona's pain and all his own as well.
“And Father Antoine did not let me even say goodbye.”
He blinked, blinking back his tears. He had been furious with the kind priest when he had brought the news. Marjorie was in seclusion, he had told him. She was trying to decide whether or not to take vows. She would not see him, or anyone else.
He gripped his horse with his knees – a fine gray stallion the monks hand loaned him from their own stables – and rode the last feet up the hill and through the gates of Cleremont.
At the gate, the guards stopped him. “State your business,” they challenged.
At least, Conn had been told that was what they were saying. The words meant nothing to him save for what Father Antoine had said.
“I'm here to deliver a letter to his grace the bishop,” Conn said in halting French, straining to remember the words the priest had taught to him before he left.
“Where from?”
“From Bois,” Conn explained.
“Oh. Enter,” the man said, sounding bored. Another guard made a show of checking his bags, but found nothing other than the bread from the abbey. He waved him through desultorily.
Conn rode up the hill, turning right where he had been told he would find the bishop's palace.
When he reached it, he was surprised to find the place quite busy. A tall, imposing building encircled by vast walls, the small courtyard was crowded by a large, impressive-looking coach. Conn dismounted, throwing his reins to a groom. “I'm here from the abbey of Bois,” he managed to say as he walked up the marble steps to the entrance.
“Do you have an appointment?” the guard at the gate asked him.
“I don't understand.”
The man sighed and rolled his eyes. “Appointment. Have. You?”
Conn shook his head.
The guard pointed him to a spot by the outer door and went in. Conn sighed and looked up at the pale sky, noticing that clouds scudded across occasionally. It might rain soon. His heart was empty of emotion: no apprehension, no wonder. All he felt was the flat, staid drive to do as he had been told, and then go. There was no reason for him to remain in this place.
His attention was torn by the arrival of the guard, marching out smartly. “Enter,” he called to Conn. Conn shrugged and nodded, but the guard pushed him aside, muttering something Conn didn't understand. He waited.
A man walked out of the door past him and went down the stairs. The guard hailed him and he called something back. When he turned, Conn gaped.
It was the count of Cleremont.
Tall, dark-haired and black-robed, he would have known him anywhere. That long, still face with the black eyes would have been recognizable anywhere. The two men looked at each other. Conn saw his eyes widen and then narrow as he, too, recalled Conn. He shouted something to the guard and the guard seized Conn.
Conn shouted out in protest. “I've done nothing! Let me go, you bastard. He's the killer!”
Twisting free, he ran down the stairs. He ran straight at the count. The count shouted out in alarm.
The guard ran down the stairs and pushed Conn against the wall. With one hand free, he began searching his pockets. Conn pushed forward, straining against the arm that pinioned him. He slipped away, but a second guard came to help his fellow-guard, frisking Conn's pockets.
The letter was found and handed to another man to take inside.
Conn shouted. “I've done nothing! Arrest him, not me!”
The count watched, those dark eyes blank and intense, as the guards discovered the dagger in Conn's sleeve. They disarmed him and the count grinned. He said something else. Conn assumed it was an order to seize him, for the guards grabbed him and began marching him away.
Conn shouted as they dragged him past the coach. At that moment, he caught sight of the count's servant, the man who had taken Leona. He lost all reason then. “You bastard!”
Screaming, he tore away from the guards and launched himself at the count. He ran at him and toppled him. He fell forward, bracing himself on one of the coach horses. He whirled, facing Conn.
As the guards fell on Conn, he shouted to them. They stopped. The count smiled.
Wordlessly, he reached through the open door of his coach and drew a sword. He advanced on Conn, the blade glittering. He raised it in both hands and was about to strike Conn's unarmored head when one of the guards shouted out, protesting.
The count whirled round, eyes narrow. Conn thought he might attack the guard and held his breath. The count dropped his sword. He shouted something and gestured at Conn.
Conn frowned, wishing he knew what it meant. “You bastard!” he shouted, straining against the guard holding him. “I'll kill you for Leona!”
At the mention of Leona, the count's eyes widened. He said something to the guards and they looked uncomfortable. They shrugged and stepped aside. Conn faced the count alone.
I wish I still had my dagger. He faced his foe, unarmed. However, this was his one chance and he had to take it. “For Leona!” he screamed.
He ran at the man, barehanded, knowing it was certain death. The count only needed to bend and reach for his sword and he could run him through. As the count bent to retrieve it, he collided with him. The man fell back and then they were both wrestling in the dirt, grabbing for the sword.
The guards raced up to seize Conn, but the count shouted that they leave him. He shook his head. He stood and dusted himself off. Giving Conn a look of pure hate, he reached into his coach and drew out a second sword. Shouting to the guards, he threw it at Conn's feet.
Conn blinked. He looked at the guard, frowning. The man nodded and, when Conn still was unmoved, he rolled his eyes. Said something. Repeated it. Mimed bending, retrieving the blade.
Conn bent and lifted it. Drew it from the scabbard. It was steel from Spain, light bluish and lethal. He whistled, never having held something so fine.
The count held his sword. The guards stepped back, miserable. One of them shouted something, angry and stern, and the count glared, but nodded. He gestured to Conn.
Conn, feeling his heart sink into his boots, followed him off the property.
The tall ex-boxer followed them out, and the guards went after. At the bottom of the hill, they went left, toward a field.
The man wants to fight it out with me. Conn was incredulous. The count of Cleremont was challenging him, Conn McNeil, to a fight? It was preposterous!
He held the sword in his hands, feeling awkward. He had never actually fought someone before. In the practice yard he had done this countless times.
Then the enemy was Alf, and we were armed with cudgels.
Now, the enemy was a man who was so ruthless he had turned Leona's mind with his cruelty and he was armed with a Toledo sword.
Conn whistled through his teeth, licking lips parched with tension. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath. “Let's get this over.”
The count took a place opposite him. One of the guards walked ten paces away, stopped where he was. Conn guessed that made the boundary of their arena. He felt as if all of time had slowed, and nothing was real.
The tall man stood behind the count. The other guard cleared his throat. He seemed to be counting.
On the word that sounded like “three”, the count launched forward. He was remorselessly fast, and Conn whistled in shock as the blade arced toward his head. He hefted his own and countered the blow, shouting with effort as it resounded down his arms, steel sparking with the blade's impact.
The count stepped back. The two men looked at each other a moment. Conn drew back, planning a sideways sweep. The count lifted his blade and met Conn’s, the two swords ringing with the meeting. Conn winced.
He is too strong for me. The count was perhaps a decade Conn's senior, and his arms were corded with muscle. Conn guessed he had fought in real battles and knew he was outmatched.
As the third blow swung in for his leg and he managed to dance backward, his own blade clanging against it, he wished his father could see him.
I'd like him to know his son died bravely.
Conn knew there was no escape. He would die here. The man was too skilled for him, too strong. In addition, he was tired, while his opponent was fit and rested, an easy coach ride from his home.
The count smiled at him, stepping back. He shouted something. Conn did not understand anything. He shouted back. “Bastard! You drove Leona mad!”
At the thought of Leona, all his control snapped. He lifted the sword and set it in a flowing arc for the count's head. Smiling, the count stepped closer and brought his blade up, then swung it sideways, slipping down and making Conn fall forward. He stood over him.
Conn scrambled to his feet just as the blow came down for his head. He lifted his sword and the blades struck, then the count's blade slipped, sparking, down his arm.
Conn shouted in pain as the blade sheared into his forearm. It bit and burned and Conn watched in amazement as his tunic sleeve filled with crimson red.
He staggered back. The count was smiling. Conn tensed, knowing his right arm was impaired now. He could feel it weakening and knew he had only minutes to end things.
Screaming Leona's name, he ran at the man, blade level. The count lifted his and would have parried it, but Conn was running too fast. He ran into him and he stumbled. As he did so, Conn twisted his blade.
The count shouted as Conn's blade caught his upper arm. He lifted his sword, but now he, too, was injured. He brought the swing down slowly.
Conn watched, dully, his arm soaking with his own blood, as the swing came for his head.